The Source of Evil
by VanessaxAtalanta
Summary: In honor of Halloween 2016, a Prequel in the Take Your Time/Market Day universe. This fic does contain some spoilers for Take Your Time, so if you prefer to live in suspense then you maybe shouldn't read this quite yet. Excerpt from From Far Away Vol. 12, page 179-180: "[O]ne day, he found he was unable to further extend his life. Time caught up with him all at once..."


Disclaimer: I do not own From Far Away (Kanata Kara). That singular privilege goes to the extremely talented Hikawa Kyouko, manga-ka. Special mention goes to BlueTrillium, beta-reader par excellence.

IMPORTANT Author's Note: This little piece of scary is more in the psychological vein of horror/supernatural as opposed to actual gore and suspense, but if you have had a traumatic experience involving chauvinism, ableism, eugenism, and/or infanticide, consider this a trigger warning. Also, this is basically a prequel for Take Your Time, so SPOILERS -don't like? Don't read. Yet.

Happy Halloween! *cue the maniacal laughter*

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The Source of Evil

Excerpt from From Far Away Vol. 12, page 179-180: "[O]ne day, he found he was unable to further extend his life. Time caught up with him all at once and his body began to rapidly disintegrate. So great was his agony that long dormant pools of magma began to stir beneath the ground, resulting in volcanic eruptions that buried the priest's temple along with the rest of the city."

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When Kathuel returned to himself, he was _beyond_ agony, _beyond_ fury.

 _Damn, damn, damn, damn._

 _Damn_ the ones who told him that immortality was a dream, and a foolish one, at that. He'd lived two centuries longer than any of _them_.

 _Damn_ that Kilahb guardian spirit he'd bound in lava glass. _Years_ he'd spent trying to force it into compliance, to assimilate its powers. Crystal was the hardest, most stubborn thing in the world. How could air be less biddable than stone?

 _Damn_ the mortal body he'd taken such pains to protect. Seeing the difference between the well-to-do who worked inside and the common folk who worked out in the fields, he'd avoided the sun, wearing broad brimmed hats and cloaks, long sleeves and veils. His four aides shared his goal, and followed his example. He'd used his power, that of the moonstones, and much, much more to make his body like a fortress, like stone.

But he was—he'd _been_ a living man. He had to breath once in a while, take in food and water, and rest. The oldest creatures in the world did all these things, too, but very, very slowly.

He had tried to live slowly. His human body just couldn't adapt.

He had tried pulling energy from the very earth, to heal the damage that seemed inherent in living, but the mediums most attuned to his gift could not yield up enough power with the speed he required.

Now, if he could draw energy from the very sky…

But he couldn't—the guardian entity had denied him continuously, clinging to its obsidian prison and yearning for its "friends".

He'd coaxed. _Let us go out into the world together. We will add your worshipers to mine. We will be eternal._

He'd exhorted. _Your devotees have found a new deity by now. Cede your power to me, and I will release you from your prison._

He'd railed. **Forget** _your bloody "friends"! You are_ mine _now! You_ will _yield to me, and I will torture you until you do!_

He'd tortured for years, then _tens_ of years, but the little bastard in the lava glass slab rebuffed him unto the very end.

The end?

No. His body, curse it, was dust and ash, but he was still Kathuel, High Priest of Torakhan. He was the Kingmaker, the Truthmaker.

And the stones—the moonstone cavern was still intact. It was where he found himself now.

 _When?_

Peripherally, he sensed that _they_ were here, too. The Four—Roki, Elgo, Pisca, Dororev—and many others, besides. Melchor was missing, but that was to be expected—while he'd kept the Four close, he'd preferred to direct Melchor from a distance.

Well. He'd be along, in due time.

 _Time._

There was one thing to be said for the afterlife—time did not press so as it had when he'd felt himself trapped in the burning temple of his frame. It was the one terrible advantage that little lava worm of a demon had had over him—now, it was surmounted.

 _Hah._ Now he had it. The air spirit knew neither time nor mortality. Its only consciousness was a purpose—to protect the Sea Clan that called it _Serber_.

How does one make a soul feel the weight of time and death? How do you make it forget what came before?

The answer was so simple. He—he was Kathuel, correct?—almost wished he'd thought of it _before_ he'd died.

 _Almost_ wished it. This way, he'd acquire the power of the sky _and_ a new, living body in One. Fell. Swoop.

He needed Melchor back.

Kathuel, High Priest of Torakhan, Kingmaker, Truthmaker, settled down to wait.

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Melchor did not return to the Great Temple. _Alive._

The High Priest of Torakhan recalled his minion in death, drawing him back with the same line he'd baited to catch him in the first place—the promise of power, and pain. When he left again, it was to procure a living servant for the High Priest's use.

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In time, Melchor returned with a woman. As a girl she'd been orphaned, then ostracized, then finally cast out—she wanted nothing more than her own place, secure and alone, with food and drink and a good fire.

She was something of a letdown. He was the High Priest, not the Priestess, and she had no special abilities. She was not even _remotely_ attractive, and if he knew one thing, it was that ugliness was an impediment to _influence_.

Well, she probably wouldn't make it, anyway.

He bade her dig, assuring her of a safe place deep underground.

She dug until she was old and bent, her teeth worn down to nubbins, her finger joints huge and misshapen, the dust of the volcanic rock and ash ground into her crepe and leather skin.

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The next was a treasure seeker. Strong, if simple. Melchor brought him to the end of the tunnel, where he kicked aside the skeleton propped against the back wall, bone hands still pressed against the rock.

He dug until he was in his prime, and dying from the stone dust in his lungs. It was only by the power the Kingmaker lent him that he won through the limestone of the temple wall.

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The next was a group of three, led by the one with the Truthmaker's wandering minion lodged firmly behind his eyes. They stepped over the withered corpse lying at the bottom of the wash out past the entrance to the temple, commenting on what a giant he must have been, and marveling at the glowing moss and mysterious root-like trees.

With his minion guiding them, they found the small rectangle of smooth black glass and removed it from the pedestal where it lay covered in—oh, probably millennia worth of dust.

The younger man and the woman insisted on removing the corpse, too. With the minion talking in his ear, the leader was unconcerned.

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The demon had not felt the time. It _did_ feel the free air outside its little black tomb.

But it also sensed the Minion, and the Truthmaker.

The Truthmaker had long since passed the task of tormenting the little bastard to the Four (their names were no longer of any importance) and the Minion. When he was in the temple, the Minion took special pleasure in it—after all, it was he who had first marked the spirit for use—and abuse.

In its prison, the entity hissed and compressed further into the crystal.

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Watching the Three, the Truthmaker got his first glimpse at the present era. From the leader's mind, the Minion had gleaned some details. They were Western by culture if not birth, and belonged to a Tribe of mercenaries that treated their trade almost as a religion. The younger man was cousin to the leader, and lately wed to the woman. Someday soon, they expected to add another member to their little cohort.

The first test subject was the leader—strong in body and experience, but weak in his heart, as soldiers of too many wars often were. It was easy for the Minion to draw him to the obsidian slab—not so easy to extricate the spirit, who had to be tricked into trying to escape through a purposely opened hole in the Truthmaker's warding, then channeled into the mercenary leader.

It was a fantastic failure. The man died within the day, feverish and convulsing, his body rejecting the jinni as strongly as the jinni rejected the residue the Minion had left in his mind.

The spirit very nearly got away, _that_ time.

Seasons passed, not that the Truthmaker took any notice. The woman gave birth to a healthy boy. A handsome child. Quite bright. When it became clear that he would suit the Truthmaker's purposes, they tried again.

It took, for a time. Perhaps because of its past as a guardian, the spirit identified with the baby's soul. It was—gentle, after a fashion.

Such a close proximity addled the jinni somewhat. It had difficulty separating the boy's emotions and memories from _itself_.

The Truthmaker was gleeful. He'd been right. The guardian spirit was _forgetting_.

However, the boy died in his youth. Disease. Apparently, he had been compatible with the spirit, but lacked the capacity to _wield_ its power.

Evidently, he was not what the Truthmaker needed.

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At first, the stone slab was passed from wealthy family to wealthy family—but _not_ from generation to generation.

Slowly, the Truthmaker discerned the requirements for a human to host the demon. Children still in the womb were best—their unformed consciousness readily assimilated the spirit, further confounding it each time. Even then, their bodies might reject the energy, or be overtaken by outside forces that gravitated to the power of the sky. In most cases, they lacked the capacity to either hold or wield the spirit's might. An inability to contain was—an _interesting spectacle_.

Females, the ugly, the stupid and the physically weak—if necessary, the Truthmaker terminated these himself, or had the Minion do it.

The prestige of owning an ancient magical artifact wore off as the obsidian's gruesome history lengthened into a saga. Eventually, the Minion had to start offering deals directly—and not to comfortable people, who had something to lose. _Desperate_ people.

Wealth was a common price for the contract. So too were influence, protection, health, and strength.

Passion was a tricky one. Love was another, and one he could not provide except in counterfeit.

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By now, the spirit remembered little more than what its host knew. It hated the Minion and the Master, but it was an instinctive, incoherent kind of revulsion. Because of this, it could be difficult to approach the children directly, but the people around them were easily maneuvered.

The Master. Was that right?

He'd acquired a new pawn in Rienka—a seer who had some interesting things to say about the future. In particular, the Prophecy of the Awakening was intriguing from several angles.

The Sky Demon, eh?

The ugly little man called him 'Master'.

That would do.

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The Tazasinian merchant was _desperate_ for success. He'd married a woman from a once noble family—partly for her beauty, partly in hopes of using what remained of her family's political connections. She'd married _him_ because she liked his sense of culture, and for financial security. So far, neither was pleased with the outcome.

The Minion barely had to prevaricate.

The child was male, well-formed, pretty, and bright.

Early on, he showed not only the capacity to contain the power of the sky, but a _natural aptitude_ for wielding it.

The new mother loved him, hated him, pitied him, and feared him. She blamed herself and her husband. She blamed the child.

The father tried not to feel anything at all.

It was _perfect_.

One problem with designing such a powerful host was the risk of it developing independence. _This_ way, the boy was learning almost from birth to hate and distrust _himself_. That dearth of confidence and self-worth would make for easier handling in the future.

Well-satisfied with the raising of his new body, the Master left the Minion to toy with the Tazasinian family. The obsidian slab had travelled rather farther from the temple beneath Mt. Purple Spirit than he liked. In the event that the boy could not be lured, the Master would need more than one ugly seer to retrieve the Sky Demon from the Western Continent.

He'd see about acquiring a country. He'd done so once before.

Hadn't he?

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The Minion brought news. Apparently, the psychological games had worked a bit too well, compromising the child's control of his powers. He'd even begun to suffer mild bouts of symptoms similar to a rejection. This _disturbed_ the Master—even with _no_ sense of time, he'd begun to anticipate his resurrection, and the boy had seemed so _perfect_.

Another failure?

When the child ran away, the Master ordered the Minion to let him go. The boy was strong and smart, and had long outgrown the need for raising.

As for the parents, they were more hindrance than help now. Besides, they had been unable to keep their side of the contract.

The Master gave the Minion free reign in regards to the—ah, _repossession_.

He had lured a likely puppet to the temple under the mountain. The Seer had said he'd come, and truly, the Master was impressed.

Seldom had he encountered anyone so charismatic, so ambitious, and so _starved_ for…well, _everything_.

It felt familiar to be ruling a King.

He'd collect his new body-and the Sky Demon-when the time was right.

When the Prophecy of the Awakening came to pass.

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 _Dun, Dun, Duuuun!_

There's a surprising amount of nightmare fuel in From Far Away, but I haven't seen any fanfiction go digging into the thoughts and motivations of the series' _Biggest_ Bad, The Source of Evil, whom I have arbitrarily dubbed Kathuel, High Priest of Torakhan, Kingmaker, Truthmaker. When I descended down into the ruins under Mt. Purple Spirit and confronted the Oz-head with the slasher smile, I discovered an entity that long, _long_ ago, was an extremely powerful and selfish human man, but had since corroded into _simply power_ and an obsession with what-to him-best _represented_ power. I thought it might be worthwhile to look into that corrosion process.

Happy Halloween!

~Lanta


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